Pottersitting  Extended
by Ferayne
Summary: An extended version of my story Pottersitting. "That wasn't a kiss, Draco." Potter said defiantly. "Very true." He agreed, nodding. "But this is." Rated for language and Drarry smex.
1. The Unusual Letter

Author's note

Hello everyone! It's been a long time since I've visited this site.

I've decided to rewrite one of my more popular stories, Pottersitting.

I hope that those of you who have read the original will find this just as enjoyable, if not more so.

Disclaimer - I own nothing ._.

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><p><strong>April.<strong>

It was a still night. A breeze drifted through the air occasionally, causing leaves to sigh gently amongst themselves in a peaceful susurrus. Outside a modest-looking house in the heart of Wizarding London, a man appeared with a quiet pop, a suitcase trailing behind him. Adjusting his cloak, he stretched languidly, fishing around his pockets for the keys to his home. Finding them, he passed through the wards on his front porch and unlocked his door. Once inside, a quick check of the wards granted him satisfaction that no one had been snooping around his home. Taking out his wand, a flick of his wrist sent his suitcase upstairs, where it began unpacking itself and sorting out its contents accordingly.

The man stretched again, this time wincing as various bones cracked. He moved towards the table in the hallway, where his mail had been spelled to arrive during his vacation. It was already sorted into piles – he immediately disposed of brochures and catalogues, and then sent his bills and personal letters up to his study. A huge pile of newspapers sat on the table as well, and he picked up the one on top of the stack, one slender eyebrow arching in curiosity. The headline had not caught his eye – some dribble about the potions market – but a smaller line about Harry Potter had, advertising a story about him on the second page. He flipped over to it, and read on.

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><p><strong>Harry Potter: Missing or Dead?<strong>

_Three years after the defeat of the Dark Lord, __the wizarding community has restored buildings and land devastated by the Great Wizarding War. Voldemort's key followers, executed or jailed for several lifetime sentences, no longer walk among us. Those who were found not at fault have assimilated into their lives as members of our community, working to rebuild their lives as well. Hogwarts, the key building involved in The War, has been restored to its previous glory, thanks to many volunteers and magical creatures willing to put amazing amounts of time and effort into such a noble cause. Older students have welcomed new students with pride, and several ex-students involved in the war have taken up positions as teachers, although many have chosen to make a career deep in the heart of the Ministry._

_However, many years after his spectacular victory, Harry Potter, still touted as the saviour of the wizarding world, has yet to respond to the community's insistence upon his position of Minister for Magic. Although he has not been seen for over three years, reliable sources from within the Ministry, and indeed, his inner circle, have stated that Mr. Potter had been working as an Auror before his mysterious disappearance__. Contact with Mr. Potter dwindled rapidly after the decline of the Dark Lord during the Great Wizarding War. After throwing himself into the task of rebuilding what was destroyed by magical fissures during the war, the promising Head Auror candidate vanishing from the public eye…_

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><p>Draco Malfoy snorted to himself, turning the pages of the Daily Prophet with enough force that several pages ripped under his hand. Those who had actively fought – no doubt this Skeeter woman had spent the war hiding under a rock – remembered it as nothing less than a gory, nightmarish stand-off between psychopathic dark wizards and those brave enough – or foolish enough – to face them, most of whom had been a handful of inexperienced students. Most of those students had died, too. Those not at fault had mostly gone into hiding, still hated by those in the community that could not come to terms that some families had been forced to cooperate with their insane former master. Pureblood families had been torn apart.<p>

Draco sighed, trying to calm himself down. He had just returned from a two-week vacation in Sweden, where his mother now resided – she was safe and happy. Potter himself had testified for the release of Draco and Narcissa using his Auror skills to investigate exactly which families were to blame. They had been unwilling participants, he had insisted, even allowing the use of a Pensieve to show his research into the matter. He had helped clear the name of several other Pureblood families as well, but could do nothing for Lucius, who was about as innocent as Millicent Bulstrode was light-footed and delicate.

Still...

Draco headed upstairs and sat down at his desk, were he tapped his chin with the end of a quill thoughtfully. Where _had_ the famous Harry Potter disappeared to? Come Voldemort's return, he had been forced to reveal his disdain for the Dark Lord, much to the chagrin of his _dearest_ father. It wasn't just a moral stance. It wasn't just the repellent idea of a disgusting tattoo which would forever mark him as Voldemort's bitch. It was that his father was so ridiculously bent on world domination that he had put his wife's life in danger, and that was the last straw for Draco. Mama's boy or not, there was no way he was going to help a cause that could potentially end in her death.

Of course, it helped that, demented as Voldemort's followers were, the Dark Lord himself was crazier than the lot of them combined. When the truth had emerged about his use of 'Horcruxes', well. Draco was more than happy to turn himself over to the Order of the Phoenix at the advice of Severus, the only teacher he had ever liked at Hogwarts, and his godfather to boot. He had not appreciated being played as a pawn in Severus' and Dumbledore's stint at the tower, but even that had been preferable to the months he had spent being tortured by Harry and his stupid friends, who, at times, seemed more concerned about his involvement with Voldemort than getting over it and actually dealing with the problem at hand.

Harry.

The name left a bitter taste on Draco's tongue. He had first laid eyes upon him at Madam Malkin's, and, having already developed an interest in him, had attempted to relate to him the only way he knew how – insulting those beneath him. He soon regretted this, catching on quickly that however Potter had been raised was evidently insanely different from his own. Attempting to reconcile in the presence of a Weasley had simply landed him in the 'Enemy' book.

Granted, the years to follow hadn't exactly seen willingness to compromise on his behalf, but being rejected had never been something Draco had taken very well. Having said that, his strange obsession with making Potter regret having ever rejected him had turned more into an even stranger obsession with making Potter riled up around him. There was something about Potter, when he had a face flushed with anger, muscles tense – almost like on the Quidditch pitch, Draco thought with a smirk – that...

Enough of that.

Draco stared out the window of his study. The Malfoy family Manor had been destroyed in the war, and afterwards he'd had half of it – the only parts of the Manor he ever used – moved into to London, rebuilt to his liking. He'd hated the old place anyway, much preferring his modern home to the cold, creepy interior of his childhood house.

He picked up a letter-opener and began working through the small pile of bills and letters. Most of the bills involved credit card debt accrued during his time overseas. A few letters were from the few friends he had stayed in contact with – Pansy, Blaise and Theo. He wrote replies to each of them, and almost called out to his owl before he remembered he had left Arden at a boarder. Sitting back, he continued his musing.

It had been two years since Draco had exchanged words with Potter. They had, along with Potter's friends, reached a very tense truce, and had even worked together on occasion before Potter finally confronted Voldemort. Since then, Draco had caught glimpses of him that eventually winked out of existence. The last time he'd seen Potter had been at a conference at the Ministry – his involvement with the good side had apparently granted him a pardon, though he suspected it had more to do with the lack of skull with a protruding snake on his forearm. Potter had been half-hidden in the shadows, flanked by Granger – or was it Weasley now? - and the Weasel. He had been ushered out rather quickly after the main points of the meeting had been made and Draco, not thinking, had followed them. He'd caught a glimpse of Potter's face and immediately regretted his decision to pursue them. Potter had looked close to death. He'd wondered why Granger – Weasley – had been accompanying them – as the new Minister of Magic, she could hardly have time to be escorting old friends around conferences, regardless of who they were. As it was, she was having a hard enough time dealing with those who felt she was not qualified for the job – mostly by being more than qualified and extremely efficient. Annoying as she was, Draco had to agree that she definitely got things well and truly done.

Draco shivered, remembering that face again. He did not wish to think about what he'd seen any more than he had to, although at the time he had feigned ignorance and tried a semi-friendly attempt at a greeting. Potter's voice, strained and quiet, had replied meekly, and GrangerWeasley and the Weasel had given him twin looks that were both scathing and grateful. Draco had been quite taken aback, considering he was used to seeing a Golden Boy who was both lively and irritatingly cheerful.

And gorgeous, but that was something that would remain unspoken. Years of being someone's arch rival gave you insights into their life, mostly because you ended up paying much more attention to them than you realised.

Draco snapped his quill in half. _From your deepest hate springs your greatest love, isn't that the way it goes?_

Not that Draco would ever admit to _love_. Intense fondness, perhaps. Desire. Never love.

His thoughts were interrupted by a light tapping at the window, and he recognised the small owl that belonged to the Weasel. As he pondered ignoring it, the thought crossed his mind that, at some point, he might need to start referring to them by their first names, as there were quite a few Weasley family members still alive that he knew about. He shook this thought off. He could barely distinguish between them. The owl tapped at the window again, and he begrudgingly stood and allowed it inside. It dropped the letter on his desk and hooted at him. Resisting the urge to swat it out the window, he rummaged through his drawers for an owl treat and sat down again to read the letter. It bore the official Minister of Magic seal, and he paused in his act of opening it. There was no way…

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><p><em>Malfoy,<em>

_You're the only one we can think of now that could help us. As mortifying as the thought of lending us a hand may be to you, right now you're the only option left. Please send a letter back with Pigwidgeon with a date and time that you can arrange to meet us. I cannot explain any further in this letter. I'm truly sorry to bother you in this fashion._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Weasley._

* * *

><p>Draco stared at the letter as though it had grown horns and started tap-dancing. A frown spread across his features. What could they possibly want from him? Did it have anything to do with this hubbub over Potter? Draco recoiled at the thought of having to assist in some sort of crazy search for Potter – or Potter's body. Draco mulled it over for a while before making a decision.<p>

The owl, stick pecking at a treat that was, frankly, almost half its size, hooted in a surprised fashion when it was lifted up and a letter tied to its foot. It hooted forlornly at the proportionally gigantic piece of food, but took flight and disappeared into the night.


	2. The Strange Request

Three nights after agreeing to meet with Potter's friends, and feeling more and more foolish about doing so, Draco Apparated onto the footpath outside of the Weasel's home. There was a small, surprisingly ornate fence around the property, and he opened the gate. There was no sensation of a ward yet, which only served to make him more wary. He approached the doorstep and raised his hand to the doorbell, but stopped as he heard voices inside.

"He's not going to come, Hermione, and even if he does, he's not going to help us."

"You don't know that, Ron, you really don't." Came the reply.

"Well okay, let's just say he's gone barmy and actually agrees to it? What can he do?"

Draco rolled his eyes and pushed the doorbell before GrangerWeasley could reply. There was a pregnant pause, and then the sound of footsteps that moved with a loud, thumping gait that could only be the Weasel's.

"As incompetent as you believe me to be, Weasley, I would appreciate a little more faith in my abilities." He drawled as the door opened.

"Uh, Malfoy, what-…uh…come…in?" the Weasel managed to stammer, ever the eloquent speaker.

Draco looked at him suspiciously, and then followed him into a small, but oddly cosy living room.

"Good evening, Malfoy. Please excuse me." GrangerWeasley said apologetically. Draco's eyes flicked to her, and then quickly returned to anything else in the room that was not the sight of her nursing an infant.

"I can't really choose when to feed him," she explained further. A toddler sidled into the room and clung to her father.

He raised an eyebrow at her, then stiffened as the toddler made her way over to him and proceeded to prod at his very expensive shoes. He cleared his throat, and Weasley hastily went over to snatch the thing into his arms.

"Uh, our daughter, Rose," he tried awkwardly, "and that's Hugo," he added, indicating the baby with GrangerWeasley.

_Hugo_? Draco's eyebrow rose more, and Weasley coughed.

"Lost...lost a bet with George." He muttered.

"Indeed." Draco replied dryly.

"Won't you sit down, please?" GrangerWeasley offered as her husband sat next to her. Draco took a seat in the armchair opposite them. Casting his eyes around – dear God, anywhere but the chair she was sitting in - he found that the living room was quite well-furnished.

Hermione seemed to read his mind, for she excused herself from the room, leaving the two men to descend into an extremely awkward silence whilst Rose began chewing on her father's pants. To Draco's relief she returned shortly, sans baby.

Sitting back down, she opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "I suppose you're wondering why we've contacted you out of the blue."

"Don't be absurd. I always receive cryptic correspondences from old Gryffindor classmates." It was an automatic response, but curiosity took the barbs away and it came off almost jokingly. He sighed inwardly as GrangerWeasley cleared her throat, hiding a small smile. The thought came back about referring to them by first names in his head. It was beginning to hurt from all of the Weasels and Weasleys and GrangerWeasleys.

Her face darked again quickly. "It's...it's about Harry."

"Oh?"

"I...I haven't a clue where to begin. Would you...just join us for dinner now? We can get right down to business there so that everyone else can...discuss...it."

Draco twitched visibly. A childhood grudge seemed petty now, but it was common knowledge that even after the war Draco had distanced himself from anything that reminded him of Hogwarts. The idea of seeing the Weasley family, no matter how tolerable they'd become during the months leading up to the war, was not on his list of favourite things to do. However, he was here now, he was curious, and he was a trifle annoyed at how she kept dancing around the subject.

"I suppose the great hero needs minions?" Draco asked sarcastically. He stood, noting the winces the other two gave, and sighed. "I might as well, but don't think I'm happy about it."

He glided after them into the dining room. He commented aloud that their home seemed an odd place to discuss a problem concerning Potter. While Draco was seated at the table, and between bringing out plates and food, Hermione explained that Potter had inherited the Black family Manor, but it was in quite a secure location. She left 'and we don't trust you yet' unsaid.

The Weasellete – Ginny – entered the room a while later and gave him a curt nod. Rose and a child he assumed to be the son of his cousin Nymphadora were seated away from the 'adult table'. He watched as the boy's hair shifted from green to purple to pink at Rose's garbled, toddler-talk requests. An older Weasley, the one that had been bitten by a werewolf, if his memory was correct, also walked in, but Draco could not remember his name.

"Um, yes. So, as you can see, Malfoy's...here." Ron finished lamely. "You remember Ginny, and my brother, Bill?"

Draco simply nodded in response. Ginny and Hermione exchanged a look and then left the room. Draco's eyebrows rose, but all of a sudden Bill and Ron were looking at everything but him. Draco listened intently, and then heard the approach of three sets of footsteps. Draco needed no guesses as to whom the final dinner guest was, and turned around to say something along the lines of 'Ah, the great saviour has decided to grace this humble dinner table with his presence', but the words died in his throat and his jaw slackened slightly.

Potter was being half-supported by both girls, making his way uncertainly to the table. He looked gaunt, as though his skin was all that separated the air and his bones, and his eyes were _grey_, not green, a dull colour that made Draco's own light-grey eyes look almost bright silver.

"Now, sit here, Harry." Ginny was saying gently. He blinked, apparently not seeing her, and sat down awkwardly and roughly, hard enough that Draco was afraid he might break himself. The table was still silent, looking at him nervously.

_How on earth did they get him over to their house in the first place?_

This was far from the ex-Gryffindor that Draco remembered. This was a shell of a person, a ghost in flesh. The old Potter would have been talking and laughing and stuffing his face in a highly undignified manner, all the while sending Draco glares or snarky remarks, though without venom, given their standing after the war.

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><p><em>"So...thanks for saving my neck out there."<em>

_"I would thank you for the same but I can't bring myself to do it."_

_Potter's face flushed, and he glared, but it was in good humour._

_"Where do we stand now?"_

_"Grow up, Potter. We're not in school anymore."_

_Potter had stared at him, those too-bright eyes full of naive confusion, and Draco had sighed in spite of himself. Reaching forward hesitantly, he clasped Potter's shoulder, ignoring the way his long-time rival looked dishevelled, reminding himself it was because of the fighting, nothing else._

_"We're not quite friends, Potter." He had stated simply, and Potter had nodded, understanding._

_"But we could be."_

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><p>Draco had been rather taken aback by Potter's statement, but he had let it slide. Nothing remained of that boy in the figure sitting across the table from him.<p>

"What happened?" he asked finally, the words filling the room. Potter looked up, starting at an unfamiliar voice. Upon seeing Draco, he froze momentarily, mumbling under his breath to himself. His voice was cracked, barely more than a whisper. He then stopped abruptly and returned to his silent, expressionless state.

The table, as one, looked shocked.

"That's the first time he's said anything in a year, Malfoy." Hermione whispered.

_A year?_

He met her gaze coolly. "It seems we have much more to discuss than you let on."


	3. The Heated Discussion

Hermione, Ginny and Ron met with Draco later during the week when his schedule was clear. He had agreed to let them meet at his house, if only to see the look of confused disbelief on Ron's face. He had excused himself to the kitchen, a polite host even in the oddest of company, and returned with drinks. He had to stop himself from staring at the odd sight the three Weasleys made, settled on his living room furniture and looking very out of place.

"So. You owe me an explanation." Draco said, sitting in his favourite armchair.

"We owe you-? Now just a minute, Malfoy, we don't-"

Hermione cut off her husband's tirade. "You have every right to back out of helping us once it's all been explained, but once you've agreed, you're committed, is that clear?"

Draco nodded, a tight movement that was barely visible, and Ginny sniffed loudly at him. He turned to look at her and she held his stare defiantly, beginning the tale of Harry's detrimental state of both mind and body.

"After the war, Harry was obviously physically, mentally and magically drained. He slipped into a coma for two months, and when he finally woke up, he was unable to move or perform simple magic. It took him another year to get both his physical and magical health back, all the while suffering from debilitating nightmares and depression." Ginny said.

Hermione nodded. "He has – had – a hero complex, as I'm sure you know, stemming from expectations of the wizarding community and his childhood. That's not something I can explain to you, it's his story, not mine. Anyway, he blamed himself for every death suffered at the hands of Voldemort and his followers, and he hated himself for every life he took as well. When he finally destroyed Voldemort his body shut down, but his mind was conscious, and it's possible that during his coma he pushed himself into a state of madness."

"As it was," Ron cut in, "when he did finally wake up it took _seventeen _fully trained mediwizards to control the outburst of uncontrolled magic he let loose – it was only after his initial...explosion...that he was unable to use magic very much at all. He shattered wards all around the hospital and almost took out all four walls of the room he was in. We managed to calm him down, and for a while, despite his physical and magical cripples, he was relatively normal, though the nightmares couldn't have helped."

"We think," Hermione began again, "that after years of having no one to rely on but himself, after having friends in Hogwarts, the shock of the battle and the death toll...well it was like a bomb, Malfoy. But this one imploded. He's withdrawn completely into himself. He doesn't sleep – if he does, he has nightmares."

"He used to nod off for ten minutes and wake up screaming – that night you came over, he was muttering, something like a whisper, but we're pretty sure he's screamed himself hoarse and just never bothered making a sound afterwards. He barely eats, his magic is up to full strength but he never uses it unless he gets really frustrated or terrified, and then we have to literally throw him into a room that's specially warded to contain his magical fits." Ginny looked like she was about to cry now; certainly her voice was getting higher and more neurotic.

"And where do I fit in with all of this? I'm no Healer."

"No," Ron agreed, "but you're a right foul git, and you know exactly what to say and do to provoke a reaction out of him. Any reaction."

"As well as that," Hermione said, a little more timidly, and then trailed off. She shared an awkward, shameful look at Ron and Ginny, and Malfoy sneered.

"You want me to not only attempt to fix him, because of your futile attempts at keeping him sane, but you want me to babysit him as well, don't you? You want to live your own lives so you pawn him off on me, is that it?"

They did not, to his surprise, rise to the bait. "In a sense, yes," Ginny replied quietly. "But we don't want to remove him from the Manor, not after all the hospitality he showed us in his years of lucidity. We don't want to cut off contact with him entirely, but we've tried everything, and _unfortunately_," her mouth twisted, "you're the only one left. We've tried half the bloody wizarding community, Malfoy."

"What do I get out of it?"

They gaped at him, and he shrugged.

"I don't do something for nothing, particularly when it involves constant contact with the lot of you, and I'm assuming I'm going to have to be with the bloody heroic prat even more. Tell me this - why should I?"

"I suppose 'out of the goodness of your heart' isn't a phrase that can be used with you, is it, you git?" Ron snapped. Draco chose to ignore it.

"We can pay you." That was Ginny.

"There is no amount of money in the world that could convince me to assist and spend time with Potter."

There was a pause. He watched them as they went through all possible bribes, knowing they had little, if any, ammunition to use. In fact, Draco himself was wondering what would convince him to do such a thing.

"You'll get to bully him again. Just think of all the terrible things you can hold against him now."

"_Hermione_!" Ginny gasped, "What a horrible thing to suggest!"

For once, Draco was inclined to agree. It was an odd thing to say, especially since much of their old rivalry was buried in a cautious, polite workmate status.

Hermione shrugged, her gaze tearful but determined. "Well, getting tormented by Malfoy could hardly push Harry into _this_ extreme a withdrawal, since he's used to it."

Draco felt highly insulted, but seethed inwardly. "And you think I'm heartless enough that, after working with him during the war, I would just ignore everything he did for me and my family and-" he trailed off, seeing where Hermione had been heading.

"You bitch." He muttered. He owed – _owed!_ – Harry his mother's life and his estate, not to mention the trial where he had been cleared of all charges where someone else might have left him to rot in Azkaban. "I still want something out of it though."

Hermione paused. "I heard you asked Stratton to transfer to the Potions department."

Draco leaned forward slightly, suddenly interested. "Go on."

"He said he only turned down your application because no one wanted you to leave the Auror division."

Draco felt his mouth move into a thin line. Irritating fool. Being an Auror was fun enough and the pay was good, but his true interests lay in potion-making. The pay was just as good, and if you knew what you were doing – which Draco definitely did - the work was safer.

Hermione sensed the change in his attitude. "As the Minister of Magic, I could…"

"Pull strings." It wasn't a question.

"Effective immediately if you agree."

"…I must admit I cannot say no to that."

"Just talk to him, rile him up, just don't hit him." Ron muttered.

"Fine,_ fine_," Draco had snapped back, "but damned if I have to _stay_ in the Manor though."

"No, it shouldn't come to that…he…doesn't really go anywhere to begin with. We…only bring him to Ron and Hermione's house, and we do that very rarely." Ginny said quietly.

"He has a little safety spot in his own room, you can pull him out of it if you feel it's necessary. Check his breathing, if he starts hyperventilating you need to calm him down. If you need help send a Patronus, fire-call, send an owl, anything", Hermione added. "I'll be over at the Manor tomorrow morning with some information on his condition for you."

"And exactly where is this Manor?" Draco asked bitterly. "I haven't been there since I was quite young."

There was a pause, and then Hermione nodded to herself and extracted a piece of paper from her jeans pocket. It said, in slightly blurry writing, 'Number 12, Grimmauld Place'.

"No one can reveal its location but Harry and the three of us. It's unplottable as well."

Draco stared at her, remembering her reluctance to discuss his home over dinner. "And you're trusting me with this all of a sudden, are you?"

She gave him a hard look them. "Why? Are you thinking of doing something devious?"

"Always."

"Then we will know exactly who to look for if something happens, now won't we?"

Draco could find no reply to that, and settled for shooing them out. And with that, he was left to mope in a most undignified, un-Malfoy-like manner in the privacy of his own home.


	4. The Dreamless Potion

The next day, after stacks of paperwork, instead of Apparating home, Draco went to the Black family Manor. Or was it simply Potter's Manor now? He appeared with a pop in the hallway of the manor and made his way upstairs, like he had been told to.

Potter's room was at the very end of the hallway on the third floor, and he knocked several times before Potter's shuffling feet made their way to the door and opened it hesitantly, just a crack. Downcast eyes and a hunched stance met Malfoy's gaze, and he flinched inwardly.

"Good afternoon, Potter," he said dryly, "could you perhaps let me into your room so I can get this over and done with?"

Draco's only response was the door closing in his face. He gritted his teeth – Hermione had mentioned it sometimes took up to twenty attempts to get bloody Potter out of his bloody room, and he kicked the door open. Maybe part of the problem was treating Potter like a goddamn child. Potter whirled around and had Draco bound in the air without a word, a silent snarl on his lips. His grey eyes widened only fractionally – Draco did a double take there, thinking he had seen a hint of green - before his face returned to its blank expression and Draco dropped to the ground. Potter spun on his heel and retreated into a small, door-less cubbyhole near the bed that must have been added specifically for moments such as these, a cosy space not more than 4 feet square filled with cushions and blankets and reassuring pictures – many of them his parents, judging by their resemblance to Potter – plastered on the three walls.

Draco rubbed his arms where the bonds had been the strongest. Despite himself, he was impressed. Not many people could hold a wordless, wandless spell of that power. He glanced around while he waited impatiently. The furniture in Potter's room was, upon closer examination, teak, a nice and classic timber. The carpet was a delicate cream. The bedsheets, coverlet and curtains were what surprised Draco the most - they were also cream, but with a rich dark green, tasselled and worked in gold embroidery. Even the small hole in the wall was furnished, in a sense, with creams and greens.

Draco muttered under his breath, keeping an eye on Potter, who still had yet to move. He wondered what would happen if he simply left to explore the rest of the manor. Against his better judgement, however, he walked over to the wall with the indentation, pursing his lips as he did so. He sat down cross-legged in front of Potter, who did not turn his head at the sound of Draco's footsteps.

"Hey, Scarhead. Taken to hiding in holes, have you?" Draco winced in spite of himself. He was already reverting to childish taunts. He wondered where the hell Hermione was.

Potter's head turned a little, but only to peer up at a photo of his parents. Draco tilted his head, staying silent. Potter's breathing was very faint, and very shallow. Draco sighed. This Potter was completely useless! He reached out a hand hesitantly – while he didn't particularly want Potter to die, he didn't really want to be here right now. He was no nurse. Potter didn't even blink when a hand was laid on his shoulder, though he did finally turn to stare – not look – at Draco. His eyes were uncannily like stone, and Draco shook his head even as Potter's breathing became even more erratic.

"This is fucked, Potter." He said dryly, and Potter, for some reason, blinked at him, though his breathing remained unsteady. Draco pulled out a set of vials from the air – his own special supply - selected one which would calm Potter's nerves and regulate oxygen flow. Being good at Potions in school was actually one hundred percent his doing, contrary to popular belief, and now that he had been transferred to his dream job he was making use of the Ministry's labs during almost every spare moment he had.

He uncorked it and held it to Potter's mouth, receiving a small headshake in response.

"If you don't drink the bloody thing I'll knock you out and make you drink it myself." Draco finally snapped after several minutes of struggling. It didn't work, not that it came as a surprise, and Draco rolled his eyes, cast a sleeping spell on the tight-lipped ex-Gryffindor, and managed to get the potion down his throat. It worked, Potter's breath becoming even, but even as Potter's lips opened in a silent scream, Draco was remembering too late the warning about nightmares. He heard the sound of someone opening and closing the door just as he was backing away. He broke a vase as he bumped into a table.

Ron came running up the stairs, took one look at Potter, and started yelling. "What the bloody hell did you do? I came here to tell you Hermione's on her way and you've already stuffed it!"

Draco told him, amidst colourful language, exactly what he had done, and Ron winced, his angry expression fading. Obviously he'd made the same mistake himself, because all he did was fling himself at Potter and hug him.

Stunned, Draco watched as Potter's silent scream turned into silent sobs, and his stone-grey eyes turned towards his safe-zone. Ron released him without hesitation and he scrambled into it, turning over so he could watch both Ron and Draco. He blinked – a sign that he was startled, Draco thought, because he barely blinked otherwise – at the sight of Ron standing next to Draco, and he frowned.

Ron shook his head. "We're getting facial expressions out of him a lot when you're around," he murmured, "and right now he's stunned and confused, probably because we're standing together."

"Really, Weasley, because I couldn't have guessed that for myself?" came the reply, to which Ron grumbled to himself.

Potter was blinking rapidly now, and he must have taken the sight in front of him as a sign he really was going crazy, because he started tugging at his hair violently. Ron started moving forward, but Potter shook his head roughly, no doubt pulling loose some clumps of hair in the process, and Ron teetered, obviously torn.

"Potter." Draco said, taking a step towards him. "For God's sake, you are a twenty-one year old man, get a grip."

Potter's eyes narrowed momentarily, and Ron made a noise of amazement – or perhaps he was choking, Draco didn't particularly care. Eyes kept on Potter's eerie stare, he produced the potion vials once more, so that Potter could see them.

"You know I was good at Potions in school, Potter, so I'll say this once, and once only. I have here a sleeping potion called a Dreamcatcher Draught which will give you a dreamless sleep for about eight hours. You need it. Drink it, or I'll force it down your bloody throat again."

Potter closed his eyes. The bags under his eyes could have passed for separate entities. He swallowed, looking at Ron.

"As much as I hate to say this, mate, I'd let him. Glad to see some responses from you though."

Potter nodded weakly and opened his mouth, clearly wanting Draco to give him the potion. Draco grimaced, kneeling down in front of Potter. He uncorked the vial and tipped it down Potter's throat. He immediately fell forward, fast asleep. Draco caught him automatically, and shuddered. Potter's weight was insubstantial.

"You, uh, need some help?" Ron said awkwardly, and Draco's mouth twisted in a grimace.

"He probably weighs less than your daughter, you idiot." Draco shot back, and Ron winced, though his ears had turned pink from anger. Draco carried the sleeping skeleton back to his bed and deposited him there without a second glance.

He heard someone else enter the house, and shortly afterwards Hermione appeared at the doorway. She took one look at Potter and her hand flew to her mouth. "What is he doing sleeping?"

"S'okay Hermione, Malfoy gave him some potion that'll make him sleep without dreaming."

"Ron," she whispered, clearly terrified, "don't you remember what happened the first time we tried that?"

"Uh, I wasn't aware you had. Was that when I had to go away for a few months for that job in Greece?"

Hermione was wringing her hands now, and all but ran around the room activating extra wards.

"Could you perhaps give me some sort of explanation? Or better yet, have you actually recorded everything that's wrong with the bloody fool?" Draco snapped, tired of their incompetence.

Hermione looked over at him impatiently, conjured a book and threw it at him. Draco caught it, but dropped it immediately – it was as thick as his waist.

"He's that messed up?"

"If you had just waited a few more minutes…" She shook her head exasperatedly. "There are that many incidents from different points of view. Plus medical reports, trial medications, treatments. Malfoy. We. Have. Tried. Everything. And we've recorded everything. How long has it been since you gave him the potion?"

"Not even two minutes."

Hermione nodded, weaving an elaborate shield around Potter's bed and a smaller one around herself, Ron and Draco.

"What's going on?" Ron asked, confused. Hermione shut the door and warded that as well.

"You'll find out in...seven minutes."


	5. The Obvious Error

Seven minutes later, Draco was sorely regretting every decision he had made since receiving the blasted letter from Hermione. Potter was livid, and in a strange state. He was still asleep, but he was apparently reliving the fighting of the war. Draco, Ron and Hermione were dodging every curse and hex thought of by wizardkind, and their Shield spells were barely holding up against the onslaught of unconscious magic. The only reason Draco had not already cursed the Boy Wonder into a coma was because he could barely find a moment to pause and catch his breath, let alone turn and aim a curse properly. Somehow he suspected the curse would be deflected anyway.

"And this is going to go on for as long as he's asleep?" Draco shouted as he barely ducked a Stunner.

"I'm afraid so!" Hermione yelled back. A gash on her arm suddenly appeared when a Sectumsempra spell zinged past her. Draco shuddered, unconsciously putting a hand on his chest. She gave him an oddly sympathetic look, and then winced as a spell shattered a vase on the table next to her, showering her with broken ceramic chips.

"Bloody hell, for eight hours?" Ron shouted, ducking under what looked like a jelly-legs curse. It hit a potted plant in the corner and Draco had time to register that the plant started wobbling before he had to dive out of the way.

"This could have been avoided had you warned me about this!" Draco yelled as an unidentified hex almost hit him square in the eye.

"We said _no sleep_," she retorted, "which, funnily enough, means, don't force him to go to sleep!"

"You said he had nightmares!" Draco snapped. He glared at nothing in particular as an odd combination of curses and hexes met in the air above him, showering him with residual magic and no doubt rendering his robes unwearable.

"Did you honestly think we wouldn't have tried something as simple as a dreamless sleeping potion?" Hermione screeched at him. She looked ready to start hexing him as well. Draco sneered at her, inwardly cursing himself. He would sooner kiss a pig than admit to himself or anyone else that his actions were poorly thought out.

"You listen to me, you great bloody moron!" he screamed at the irate Potter, who snarled at someone invisible and tried to tackle them. "You're in your bloody bedroom! Would you kindly wake the fuck up and desist attempting to kill your friends and myself!"

Potter suddenly froze, apparently staring into an oncoming spell with nowhere to go. Draco recognised the scene immediately. He'd been fighting in the war as well, and had looked up to see Potter just as his shield wavered, and a Death Eater – Travers, by the look of it – had seen him in the same moment. Without thinking, Draco had tackled the idiot to the ground, and a Cruciatus had zinged through the air where Potter had been.

Standing, Draco launched himself at Potter, who had broken through the shield Hermione had woven around his bed long ago, and they both smashed onto the floor. Ron and Hermione stared at them, flabbergasted, as Potter's mouth worked without sound. Draco knew the words perfectly, and he responded to them just as he had done years ago.

_"Shit, Malfoy. Uh...wow, I can't believe you just did that..."_

"I'm not about to die because you can't survive long enough to off MouldyWart." Draco muttered.

Potter laughed weakly, but silently. Even Ron looked slightly amused, although confusion was the strongest expression on his face. Draco ignored the other two.

_"Fair enough. Look..."_

"Get on with it, Potter."

Potter suddenly jolted, as though doused with cold water, and apparently time skipped forward to just after the war. Draco recognised his stance, leaning against the wall, looking exhausted and much older than he really was. They were standing amidst the rubble of some nondescript building, while mediwizards ran all over the place. It was a horrible, sobering scene. Draco wondered whether Potter was seeing all of it for the first time, or whether he remembered doing it all before.

_"So...thanks for saving my neck out there."_

Draco swallowed. "I would thank you for the same but I can't bring myself to do it."

Potter's face flushed, and he glared. Ron and Hermione were still speechless, confused by the absence of dialogue on Potter's behalf.

_"Where do we stand now?"_

"Grow up, Potter. We're not in school anymore."

Potter stared at him with dark grey eyes, and Draco didn't hesitate to clasp his shoulder this time.

"We're not quite friends, Potter."

Potter nodded and opened his mouth, but this time Draco spoke as well.

_"But we could be."_

"After what you just did to me, you owe me dinner." He said, smirking. He frowned as he realised how that might come across, but shook it off and watched for Potter's reaction.

Potter gasped, taking a step back, and his eyes flickered – literally flickered – between the stone grey his eyes now were, and the emerald green they had used to be. Then he slumped to the ground, having what Draco suspected to be his first real sleep in a long time. Ron was making real choking noises now, and Hermione was still staring at them, so Draco sighed, picked up the gaunt frame of his once-rival, and placed Potter back on the bed.

"You..." her voice broke. Clearing her throat, she tried again, but he was already stalking off towards the door.

"I really don't have time for this crap." he snapped. He was doing a lot of snapping here. "This is a totally useless, brainless shadow of the Potter I remember and I don't enjoy wasting my time on him."

"But he remembers you. He doesn't remember any of us." Hermione's bottom lip quivered, and Draco rolled his eyes. Stupid Gryffindor sentimentality. Draco would have celebrated if most of his former classmates suddenly forgot all about him, if only so that he could stop watching his own back so closely.

"Well hooray for me. It's just what I've always wanted." Draco replied coldly, and with that, he walked out of the manor and Apparated home.


	6. The Sad Silence

**May**

Every Tuesday, Friday and Sunday, some time after Draco had finished working at the office, he would Apparate near the Black Manor and make his way over to Potter's bedroom. Part of the agreement for Draco's miserable task of Pottersitter was that he show up several times a week. He had attempted to reduce it to one or two, but even he had to admit that at least Potter was able to sleep more often because of him. Unfortunately, in order for Potter to get do so, Draco had to force-feed him a vial of the Dreamcatcher Draught and relive his goddamn memories over and over again. Hermione, Ron, Ginny and even Bill had tried – it only worked for Draco.

"Lucky me," he had drawled when Bill came back downstairs, shaking his head and holding a towel to his bleeding wrist.

"You think we like this any more than you do?" Ginny had snapped at him, tired and stressed.

Draco sneered. "You, at least, are _friends_ with the imbecile currently trying to destroy unseen enemies of the past upstairs in his room. May I remind you that even at the best of our relationship, Potter and I were no more than civil acquaintances with the occasional need to work together?"

Surprisingly, that had shut her up, and he was sure he had heard a mumbled apology. He had turned on his heel and marched upstairs, and that had been the end of that.

One Friday afternoon, while Potter was re-enacting his war day, Draco, fed up with repeating himself over and over, remained silent. Potter's eyes, which normally faded in and out of their normal colouring during this time, remained their usual grey and to Draco's chagrin, Potter had then sunk to the floor, whispering to himself. He even began rocking back and forth like some kind of demented madman, and Draco, having resigned himself to the unlikely role of Potter's sitter, was by his side without really thinking about what he was doing.

Potter, to his horror, had seized his sleeve and buried his head into the crook of Draco's arm - having read through several reports in the massive book Hermione had flung at him, he understood this to be quite a normal reaction in the face of uncertainty.

Draco had therefore allowed Potter to mutter into his rather expensive cloak, all the while trying not to think about how close Potter actually was. It wasn't difficult to pretend he wasn't attracted in any way to Potter, considering that the snivelling freak he had attached to his arm was certainly not the person he had developed feelings for during the last year of school and the months leading up to the war. And he had most certainly not just admitted to himself that he had feelings. For Potter. At all.

When Potter had finally stopped shaking, Draco stood up brusquely and left without a word. He stormed back to his house, cursing and muttering the entire way there, pretending that he was acting in a perfectly dignified manner. After pacing back and forth in his living room for a few minutes, he sank into his armchair and pinched the bridge of his nose, taking deep breaths. He summoned a book from upstairs, opened it up and peered at its contents. During his work hours – and of course, during his hours at the lab for his own enjoyment – he made notes regularly and meticulously. He had a notebook that was full of notes, recipes and improvements on said recipes. He was even working on a few of his own already, something which had Stratton cursing himself for not transferring Draco sooner. The admission had stroked Draco's ego.

"I do not care about Harry Fucking Potter." He said aloud. He meant it too, but for the sake of being correct, he amended his sentence. Later on he would wonder why he did, for there was no one else to hear him.

"I do not care about the Harry Potter I am currently dealing with."

He stood, resolutely snapping the book shut and spoke again.

"He is a raving lunatic and should be locked away for the good of us all."

He stormed upstairs, and threw the book at the wall.

"I have better things to do with my life," he told his desk.

He was almost yelling now.

"And I am not attracted to him anymore!"

A tapping at his window almost made him fall over from shock. He cleared his throat and adjusted his robes, smoothing them off, the picture of cold, noble pride, and then bit his lip when he repeated his last outburst to himself.

_Anymore_…

He turned to look at the window when there was another tap. That bloody tiny owl again. His own owl, Arden, hooted suspiciously at the small flying dustball when Draco let it inside.

_Malfoy,_

_I know your birthday is coming up, and if you'd be amenable to attending, we'll be throwing you a birthday party at our place. If you don't come, we'll just have to let all the food, alcohol and presents go to waste._

_Our place, 7pm, on the 5__th__._

_Hermione_

This was nothing compared to the horn-growing, tap-dancing letter she had first sent him. By comparison, this letter was a goddamn albatross playing a violin whilst it stood on its own head. Draco stared at it for long moments, and then set it on his desk. He picked up his notebook and started writing in it. Behind him, Pigwidgeon investigated Arden's cage, perched atop it and started hooting in an attempt to start a conversation. After a moment's hesitation, Arden joined in, until the noise became so irritating that Draco stirred and made a shooing motion. The night descended into silence once more, and Draco picked up a piece of parchment.

_Dear moron._

No, that probably wouldn't do. He crumpled up the piece of parchment, tossed it into the bin, and pulled a new one towards him.

_Dear idiot GrangerWeasel._

That was worse. That one went into the bin as well.

_Weasley_

_Contrary to popular belief, I do in fact have friends and a life outside of fraternising with you people._

Draco stared at that sentence. It was true that he had friends, but Pansy and Blaise had already sent over their birthday present from their holiday home in Paris – a book on advanced potions - and Theo was hardly a party animal.

He threw the parchment at the fire this time, and it burst into flame, turning into ash almost instantly.

_Weasley_

_Perhaps._

_D. Malfoy_

He snatched up the tiny owl, tied the piece of parchment onto his foot and sent him on his way, this time with a smaller, more sizeable treat.

In her home miles away, Hermione smiled softly to herself and placed the reply on the desk before her.


	7. The Unexpected Party

**June.**

June came and went almost uneventfully, save for the party that the Weasleys hosted for Draco. He had arrived at their house, punctual as always, if not slightly perturbed by what he was about to do. The door had opened before he'd had a chance to knock and there was a sudden silence as the people inside registered who it was. He made out Ron's figure, as well as Ginny, George and some children. He felt exposed all of a sudden, and wondered what it was that possessed him to go and spend his birthday with the Weasleys, of all people. He opened his mouth, about to make some excuse to leave, but Hermione beat him to it.

"Malfoy! We thought…well we thought it was Bill, because, oh there you are Bill, do come in. Hello Fleur, " Hermione waved Bill and his wife inside in a flustered manner. "We didn't…"

_Know if you were coming_, Draco finished in his head as he held up a hand to stop her mid-sentence. "Don't trouble yourself over it. Let's…just get this over with quickly, shall we? Doubtless the extending of your olive branch does not require me to be here longer than necessary."

Hermione knew better than to reply, and merely nodded.

With that, the conversation inside resumed and he stepped through their threshold. What he saw next was oddly pleasing, although he would never admit it. The house had been decorated in silver and blue – colours that he was normally dressed in when he was in public. He supposed they had assumed they were his favourites, and he had to admit they were correct. _For a change_, he added mentally. He sat down at the table awkwardly, but was surprised when Bill struck up a conversation about Quidditch that he actually found interesting.

The food was lovely, and he said simply so, which earned a snigger from Ron. Hermione elbowed him in the ribcage, but Draco, ever the crowd-pleaser, asked him to elaborate.

"She used to be absolute _pants_ at cooking! Rubbish, really," he laughed. He gulped when Hermione's lips pursed and she glared at him. "Uh…I…that is to say…as you said…it's really wonderful…now?"

Without another word, Hermione picked up his plate, took it into the kitchen and sat back down.

"…My food?" Ron said. He had the uncanny ability to make everything sound uncertain.

"You're not getting another bite, Ronald." Hermione said testily.

Everyone at the table laughed, even the children, and Ron was reduced to spluttered apologies.

"Could you simply not get up and fetch it yourself?" Draco suggested with a smirk that implied he knew exactly why this was not an option.

"Speak for yourself," muttered Ron, "Just wait until you get married."

"No dessert, either, Ronald," Hermione said cheerfully. Fleur whispered something conspiratorially into Bill's ear that made him choke on his drink and laugh heartily.

Ron's mouth dropped open and he flailed helplessly in the direction of Draco. "See, that was your fault!"

"My fault?" Draco put on his more sincere face. Despite his apprehension at being inside a Weasley's home, eating a Weasley's cooking, he had to admit that egging Ron on in the entirely wrong direction was better than sitting home alone drinking Firewhisky and staring at the fireplace. "Why, Weasley, I would never provoke such a wonderful hostess."

More laughter met this remark, and Ron, defeated, slumped forwards onto the table.

Once everyone had finished dinner, Hermione went into the kitchen to fetch dessert. As Draco had suspected, she gave some to Ron anyway, and shook his head at her with what he hoped was a derisive smirk rather than an amused smile. Ron made a big show of tasting it and being impressed by its flavour, and in return, Hermione smacked him in the head playfully.

He felt something tug at his robe as dessert was being cleared away, and looked down to find a young girl – not Rose – pulling at his sleeve. What was George's child's name again? It was something similar. Rosy? Rosemary? His eyes slid over to Hermione and she mouthed 'Roxanne'.

"…yes…Roxanne…?"

"Mister Malfoy, Aunty Hermione said we could open your presents after dinner."

Draco looked back up at the others. "Presents," he repeated flatly. In response, everyone except Fleur shrugged as one. He fought back the desire to shudder, or worse, say something in retaliation that implied that their offspring were offensive in some way.

Hermione took him aside as they all filed into the living room. "Look, Malfoy," she began uncertainly. Draco wondered if he had ever heard her sound confused.

"Pansy and Blaise are in France. My mother is in Sweden. Theo is a good friend, but frankly, shit at partying. I have nowhere better to be, and admitting that to you is making me feel extremely nauseated. Weasel-lover," he added, although it didn't sound nearly as cruel as it used to and she didn't even blink at the attempted insult.

"Just open them and go. I'm sure you're quite uncomfortable here. We just…well we know you've never been friends with Harry, but we appreciate you trying to help just the same. It's…you've done more than anyone else has, so we're trying our best to…be civil with you."

He raised an eyebrow at that and brushed past her into the living room.

"Mister Malfoy, sit here, sit here!"

Draco exhaled exasperatedly, softly enough that the children, distracted as they were, did not hear him. He did it pointedly in Ron and George's direction, and without saying a word both fathers picked up their hyperactive daughters.

"This is from us." Ron said, handing Draco a small parcel. Inside was a large notebook, bound in dragonskin leather, with pages made from a material very similar to silk. "Hermione was asking your workmates for gift ideas and…well almost no one had any bloody good ones but then Stratton mentioned you seemed to like writing. The pages are waterproof."

"I…thank you," Draco said simply, stunned. Hermione had asked his_ boss_ for gift ideas? He looked over at her, and she ducked her head.

Bill and Fleur gave him a nice new set of quills to go with the notebook, and Ginny had bought him a book on potions ingredients. It was odd, sitting amongst people he had hated. He had harmed them. They had harmed him. And now…

Draco had gathered up his presents, said a quiet but polite goodbye, and had returned home. He set his presents from the Weasleys on his desk next to the book Blaise and Pansy had sent over. Theo fire-called, and moments later an owl had arrived from him with a few pieces of potion-making equipment. He marvelled at this. At this rate he wouldn't ever have to buy anything for himself. If someone had told him that the bloody Weasley family would have cajoled him into babysitting for Harry bloody Potter and then given him bloody presents for his bloody birthday at their house…

Draco pinched the bridge of his noise, suddenly needing a drink. Walking downstairs to his kitchen, he briefly wondered who had been watching over the useless husk of Potter. Worry stabbed at him, but he brushed it aside. No doubt the Weasleys had thought of that. Though Draco found Hermione ridiculously irritating, he knew she was intelligent, loathe as he was to admit it.

He selected a bottle, tipped some of the liquid into a glass, and downed it, shaking his head vigorously as it burned his throat. He poured some more, swirled the glass, and returned the bottle to its shelf before padded quietly over to his armchair. The fire burned dimly, but was still warm enough to stave off the chill of the June night. He drank the contents of the glass again, and then sat in the armchair until he began to feel drowsy. Merlin, but he was tired all of a sudden. He rose, stretched, and then retired to bed.


	8. The Tentative Hug

**July**

July was just as boring as June, a dull, tedious repetition of war memories. It was late-July before anything more than polite conversation was exchanged between Draco and the Weasleys, although after his birthday they were certainly less strained in each other's company. Draco didn't know if that was such a good thing.

Draco had walked into the Manor, headed upstairs, and force-fed Potter half a breadroll. Potter had thrown up most of it. When he was down, Draco forced him to eat the other half, and then forced him to drink some water. Surprisingly, Potter had kept most of that down. Draco left him lying on the bed and headed downstairs to the kitched. He was startled by Hermione greeting him – he hadn't heard her come inside.

"Oh hello Malfoy, it's good that you're here."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is it, now?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, a gesture which seemed oddly friendly. It made Draco uncomfortable, and he turned away from her. He looked around the kitchen, noting the bags sitting on the counter. He looked over at her again with a questioning, but not demanding, gaze.

"It's Harry's birthday in a couple of days," Hermione said softly.

Draco would have snorted were it not both unbecoming and uncultured. "I fail to see how a birthday party is appropriate or useful in this situation."

Hermione's look couldn't stop the automatic response. "Honestly," he continued, "do you people think that waving a slice of cake in his face whilst people sing annoying songs and shove gifts at him is going to help his condition?" He almost regretted saying it, but Hermione's lack of response made him push on desperately, trying to get some semblance of animosity back. "What do you think he's going to do? Come down from his room, take a look around and then suddenly get better? You think he's going to be hit by a ray of sunshine, start dancing and singing and then everything will just-"

She'd slapped him. He'd been expecting it. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. He made to speak again, but she cut him off harshly.

"Shut up. Just…shut up. I should have known better than to think that you actually cared about this, but I suppose the fulfilment of your own selfish life was all you were really after. Just go away, Malfoy, and leave Harry's friends to celebrate his birthday with him." The word 'friends' was underlined and capitalised in Draco's head.

He wanted to apologise, not for hurting her feelings, but for making her think that he didn't care. He was beginning to, in his own way. He wanted the old Potter back as well, if only to insult him and fight with him and work together on stupid boring Auror cases once in a while. But he said nothing, because he didn't know Potter at all, didn't know Potter's friends, and then after saying nothing, he left.

Draco spent the next couple of days cooped up in one of the potions labs at work, burying himself in work and reminding himself that he was doing it for the job. He didn't think Hermione would rescind his job transfer, but part of him was worried that she might.

A clock on the wall spun and danced, informing him that it was eight in the evening. He caught himself wondering whether Potter's birthday party had started. He reached for another vial, and then glanced around. No one was paying him any attention. He'd finished a batch of potions – trying to complete another would take at least three hours.

"Fuck this," he muttered to himself, and left for Potter's house.

Upon arriving, he noted the sound of music and light-hearted conversation drifting through the walls. With a deep breath that only served to make him regret his actions more, he cursed to himself once again and then pushed open the door. The conversation stopped – clearly there was no confusion this time about who it was at the door.

Ron's head peered into the hallway, and his eyes narrowed slightly when he confirmed that, yes, in fact, it was Draco standing at the door.

"I can go," Draco said curtly.

Ron seemed as though he was going to agree, but then shook his head. "We managed to get him downstairs into the living room, but he's just sitting in the corner, staring at the wall."

Draco followed him through the house without a word. Hermione, Ginny, George, Bill and Fleur were seated around the room, as well as a woman he recognised as being on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. There were even more children here, he noted with some slight panic.

"Uh, you remember Angelina? She was Chaser on our team…" George began awkwardly. "And this is Fred, Roxy's brother…That's Victoire, Dominique and Louis – they're Bill and Fleur's. And, ah, that's Teddy. He's your cousin's son…Tonks. I mean…Nymphadora. And Lupin's," he was rambling now.

There was a silence again. Draco once more felt ridiculously out of place.

"I was just…stopping by."

"And you happened to have a present for Harry just lying around?" Hermione asked, pointing at the parcel in his hand.

"Actually it was in the bushes outside," Draco replied flippantly. "Probably a bomb."

The kids screamed at that, and hid behind pieces of furniture and parents' legs. Ginny stifled a laugh, and in spite of himself, Draco smirked. In truth, he had bought before Hermione had come over, but there was no way they were ever going to find that out. Hermione put a hand over her mouth, trying to come across as shocked, but there was no mistaking the smile hidden behind her palm.

The conversation resumed afterwards, and Draco helped himself to some food, suddenly realising how hungry he was. Everyone was careful not to let the children bother him too much. A little while later, Hermione gently placed the various presents in front of Potter, who sat still and silent, until a pile of presents sat untouched by his feet.

"Don't you want to open them, Harry?" Ginny said quietly. Potter only turned his head towards the sound, but gave no reply.

Draco tutted, and forced Potter to look at him, drawing gasps through the room. "Potter," he said firmly, "I think that's rather ungrateful. Open the bloody presents the bloody Weasleys and I have gotten for you." Everyone was too stunned to even think about reprimanding his choice in language.

Potter's eyes bore into his, and when they flickered to green for longer than a split second, Draco's breath hitched. Potter turned towards the Weasleys and opened his mouth to say something, but apparently seeing them properly for the first time in years scared the living daylights out of him because his eyes were back to grey in a flash and he was sprinting up the stairs to his room.

Draco sighed, ready to face an onslaught of insults and anger, but instead, Hermione actually had the nerve to wrap him into a hug, the likes of which rivalled his mother's choking, bone-crushing squeezes, and Draco smiled in spite of himself.


	9. The Forgotten Dinner

**August.**

After the incident during his birthday party, Potter had been quieter than normal, a feat which Draco would not have found possible for someone already in a waking catatonic state. He wasn't accepting any potions, and had stopped eating again, no doubt as some form of self-punishment for breaking his state of inner turmoil and almost addressing another human being directly. Not for the first time, Draco wondered just what was going inside Potter's empty, useless head. After two weeks, Draco had grimaced, swallowed his pride, and fire-called Potter's closest minions.

He looked around, tight-lipped. Hermione and Ginny were sitting on the couch in tears, and Ron was tearing his hair out while he stared out the window. None of them had succeeded in their attempts to make Potter eat, drink or sleep. He looked worse than he did when Draco had first seen him at Hermione and Ron's house.

"I have a suggestion," he said suddenly. Three heads turned towards him expectantly, and he continued, "We Stun him, shove one of those hospital tubes down his throat, and then-"

Ron cut him off. "Tried it once. Read the bloody book."

Draco glared at him. "I'll have you know that I'm only halfway through that ridiculous novel of Potter's misery." He got no response, so he stalked over to the coffee table where the book currently rested and flipped it open. It was Hermione's doing, so it was ridiculously well-organised and it was easy to find the aforementioned incident. Draco's eyebrows rose.

"The hospital tube shot out and started…strangling…a mediwizard." He looked up at the others. "That's…quite funny, actually."

Ginny had turned away from him, but her shoulders were shaking slightly and Hermione's eyes were on the ceiling. Ron was still looking out the window. Then, as one, the three of them turned to meet his gaze, and they burst out laughing.

It was a sad sort of laugh, the kind brought out in desperate situations because you can't cry anymore.

* * *

><p><strong>September.<strong>

Draco had been dreading September. It was the month that Potter had defeated the Dark Lord, and Draco had been expecting to come in and find Potter lying on the floor in a coma. To his surprise and subsequent dismay, he had found Potter sitting at the window, crying. Alarmed, Draco had been at Potter's side, and, before realising what he was doing, had drawn Potter closer into the world's most awkward hug.

That week, Potter slept of his own volition, and Draco tried very hard not think about whether it was the hug that made it possible. Naturally, Potter still woke up on occasion and panic enough to shatter the windows with magic, but Draco felt that this was an improvement, however small it may be.

He was certainly not watching Potter sleep, either, he was merely observing the patient in a clinical manner, trying to gauge if any worse symptoms were surfacing. He was privately pleased that Potter was starting to fall asleep by himself. In fact, just the other night, Potter had managed half a sandwich without throwing up.

The rest of the month had seen a definite increase in Potter's appetite, and Draco even went so far as to open a box of Honeyduke's chocolate and watch as Potter stuffed his face with two whole pieces. He tried to remind himself that he was doing this to secure his job, but the lie sounded absurd even in his own head. He sighed, coming to terms with the fact that maybe, just maybe, he really did want Potter to get better, just because.

_After all, a Potter I can yell at and fight with is far better than a Potter who has reached such a desperate state that _I _am helping him recover. He really owes me dinner now…_

He said a polite hello to Hermione as he passed on her the stairs on his way home, gave her a quick update on Potter's state, and went home.

He paused outside his property. Someone was inside. He was suspicious, but the wards assured him that he knew this person. He cursed himself for not making them more complicated – he'd been meaning to install wards that almost indicated whether or not he actually _liked_ whoever tripped the wards. He drew his wand and entered the home.

"Draco!" came a familiar cry, and he relaxed instantly. The arms of Pansy wrapped around him in a tight hug, and then moved, only to be replaced by the much more solid grip of Blaise. Draco masked his sudden confusion with a wry smile. Unfortunately, Pansy was not so easily fooled.

"You forgot we were coming over, didn't you?" she asked accusingly.

"Nonsense," Draco lied. He had, in fact, forgotten they had come home from Paris yesterday and were due to have dinner at his house tonight.

Pansy raised an eyebrow, and he coughed. "Perhaps."

This response earned him a roll of the eyes, and she gestured to his dining room. He looked past her shoulder and was unsurprised to find dinner already waiting for him.

"Ah, Blaise, how I envy you sometimes," Draco sighed dramatically.

Blaise grinned in response, and the three of them sat down to dinner.

"How did you find Paris?" Draco asked between bites.

Pansy launched into a dramatic retelling of their honeymoon while Blaise occasionally managed to get a few words in while she paused for breath. Draco nodded and hummed in an impressed way – he had been to Paris before and it hadn't quite been to his liking – whenever Pansy gestured particularly violently. He soon found his mind wandering back to Potter, and he stared broodily into his food as it gradually began to taste less like a meal and more like cardboard and ashes. His thoughts slipped further away from Paris, and shifted onto the lonely figure of Potter, curled up in his room and shut into his own mind.

Draco became aware of an irritating pain in his arm, and he jumped slightly as he realised that Pansy was poking him with a fork.

"Draco, what is wrong with y-" Pansy stopped. "Draco, you looked positively exhausted? What on earth are your hours like at the office now?"

Draco shrugged gracefully, and Pansy peered at him suspiciously. "So it's not that, then. Draco…what's happened? You stopped listening to me and you haven't even reacted to the photos of men I personally know you'll find gorgeous."

Draco looked down at the table. Every holiday Pansy went on, she brought back photos of men that she thought Draco might take an interest in. Naturally, she knew much about Draco, so most of the men were dark-haired, green-eyed, or, very rarely, both. He studied the photos curiously. Like all of the photos, he found them to be a shadow of the man he had once found so attractive. Without realising it, his lips thinned into a line as he considered what that man had become because of his ridiculous self-punishment.

Pansy cleared her throat – he had forgotten they were there again. He debated coming up with an elaborate lie, but decided against it. As they continued to dine, he explained the situation, and Blaise's face grew more and more disbelieving, while Pansy's remained expressionless. When he finished, neither of them spoke for some time.

Eventually, Pansy broke the silence. "You do realise how ridiculous that sounded?"

Draco fought the urge to bury his head in his hands. "I knew you wouldn't believe it."

"No, I believe you. I just think it's ridiculous."

Blaise stared at her. "You honestly believed that cock-and-bull story?" Pansy flicked a hand impatiently at her husband.

"Draco. What have you gotten yourself into?"

Draco shook his head. "I honestly don't know."


	10. The Final Straw

**November**

Seven months after Potter's friends had approached him, Draco was sitting in Potter's room, reading an interesting article about the soporific properties of a new herb they had discovered in the ruins of Machu Picchu. It was one of the various subscription journals that he had sent to his house once a month. Part of him knew it was absurd, bordering on insane, that he wished the potions industry would create a weekly magazine, but the fact remained that his field was in fact too boring to have much to write about. Occasionally the quill next to him, hovering above the notebook the Weasleys had given him for his birthday, would jot down a note. Ron, Hermione and George were somewhere downstairs, for reasons he could not remember just now as he had barely been paying attention to them when he walked in.

The same incompetent intern had been working today, except this time he had somehow made an error whilst creating one of the simplest potions to make – a Pepperup Potion. Draco had been amazed, both at the fact that he hadn't been fired, and at the fact that the imbecile had, for some reason, thought that chilli leaves were supposed to go in while the potion was red, when any moron with a brain knew they were to be thrown in whilst the potion was mint green. It had, of course, exploded, and one of Draco's nicer pair of work shoes had been completely ruined. His hair had been singed, as well, and right now he just wanted to sit down and relax with a good read. He was determined to stay calm.

On the bed next to the chair, Potter sat, catatonic and staring blankly at the wall. Draco looked up from time to time to confirm that yes, he was in fact still sitting there like a statue. He straightened the pages of the potions journal and turned the page to an advert for premium cauldrons. He snorted with derision – honestly, who in their right mind would use a cobalt-lined cauldron?

A rustle of clothing made him look up. Potter had shifted slightly to the right. Draco went back to reading. He heard a clatter of utensils from somewhere else in the manor, and nodded absentmindedly, remembering that they had decided to clean the abysmal surroundings of the manor in an effort to make the whole place just as nice as Potter's room. He assumed that the house-elf – Kritter? Creature? – who barely tolerated their presence to begin with, was probably having a conniption.

Potter shifted again as a yell from above signalled that George had most likely been attacked by some kind of animal or cursed object, and there was a great thumping noise as he danced around trying to shake it off. Draco considered going and investigating, and then decided he was perfectly comfortable where he was.

Suddenly, Potter slumped forward, asleep, and Draco sighed exasperatedly. He watched Potter for a moment, but he didn't move, and so Draco assumed that for once, he was not going to re-enact the war in his dreams. He went back to reading, slightly agitated at all of the interruptions, and in the same moment he tilted his head down towards the journal, a Stinging Hex shot past his ear, burning the tip. He swore loudly, and threw the journal down in disgust.

He felt his anger rising as Potter danced uselessly in his room, swerving and casting spells. He let out a cry of rage. He heard the movements upstairs cease and he snarled wordlessly as Potter started speaking to the dream-Malfoy. Then he did something very uncharacteristic, which he would lament for some time afterwards. In the presence of Ron, Hermione and George, he had lost his Malfoy loftiness.

"No, we could _not_ be friends, you stupid, useless _imbecile_! Do you know why? It's because, unlike you, I have moved on from my losses and the crimes I committed during the war. Do you think your friends came through the war without lives lost because of them? Without deaths caused by them? Grow up, you self-centred _idiot_. I don't make it my life's ambition to attempt reconciling with people who I don't even bloody recognise. I don't know who you are! You're not Harry Potter, you're some sad sap who gave up!" He was screaming by the end of it.

Panting slightly, he glared as hard as he could into Potter's flickering eyes. He was exhausted, and he just wanted the stupid _Saviour _to get over it so that Draco could have his life back and possibly spend time with a normal, sane and attractive Potter.

Potter started shaking, and the walls began to rattle with suppressed magical rage. Draco swore, wanting nothing more than to punch him in the face, if it would help. Potter collapsed, and without thinking, without remembering the Weasleys were standing in the room, Draco was at his side, his hand on Potter's shoulder.

Suddenly, Potter's stone-grey eyes flashed bright green, and Draco was greeted by a fist in the face.

"Shut _up_!" came a scream, and the voice was clear and familiar, as though its owner had never stopped using it.

Draco fell backwards, his jaw aching, his lip split, and snarled wordlessly as he stood. He stared into beautifully green eyes and lost it. Throwing himself at Potter, he punched him in the stomach, ignoring the gasps and yells of the Weasleys present.

"_You_ shut up, you _asshole_!"

"Mommy's boy!"

"Destitute orphan!"

"Arrogant prick!"

"Uncultured swine!"

The insults and punches and kicks flew backwards and forwards. Ron, Hermione and George were trying to cast shield charms to separate them but Draco and Potter were flailing around so violently that it was futile to try. There was a break in the violence as both men swayed, fists clenched, glaring at each other. Draco's lip had started dripping blood onto his shirt, but it didn't matter because his shirt was torn and already covered in blood from a gash on his arm. Potter had two black eyes, a split lip and what looked like a broken wrist. Both of them were turning black and blue and yellow from bruises.

"You don't know what I went through." Potter growled.

"And you don't know what _I _went through. You waltz in, testify for my family and think that our lives are suddenly sunshine and daisies, don't you, Potter?" Draco sneered.

Potter looked furious. "You know _damn _well that's not what I think. I _hurt_ so many people, destroyed so many families. I _killed_ during that war."

"We all did. But we didn't become useless, self-punishing imbeciles. _We_ didn't become a burden to our friends."

"That is _not_ true," Hermione started to say, but Draco impatiently held his hand up.

"I'm not in the mood to hear you defend him. For once in your life, shut up."

He wasn't sure what made her obey him, but miraculously, she stepped back, flustered.

Potter was already lost in that train of thought, however, and his eyes started fading again. "I am sorry about that," he murmured quietly. "I…I couldn't control it. I spent most of my time in my head, in a fog, because I truly felt that I deserved nothing more than to be left in a room to die."

"For fuck's sake. You saved thousands of lives. You can't destroy a Dark wizard and expect there to be no casualties." Draco snapped. "Grow up and accept what you've done. Accept that you need help, and then accept the help from your friends, or so help me I will shove your own wand into your nostril and hex your brains so that it dribbles out of your ears." Somewhere behind him, George stifled a laugh.

Potter was silent for a long time. The only reason no one moved forward towards him was because his eyes, fixated on the floor, remained green.

"I…I don't know what to do now." He admitted.

"That's what they're here for." Draco nodded towards the other three.

"And you? What are you here for?" Potter's voice was soft and curious.

Draco glanced over at Hermione. "I was here for a job. It's done. Enjoy your life, Potter."

With that, before anyone could stop him, he was gone. He paused once at the doorstep, and almost turned and ran back inside, but then his jaw set and he marched forward, determined to put the last seven months behind him.

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

And that's it! The story is over.

Ehehehe, no, I'm kidding. Please don't hurt me, there are two more chapters after this, I swear.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far.

Reverie Wilde - I was trying to find the date of Voldemort's defeat but Google failed me ._.


	11. The Office Visit

**April**

Draco looked up at the clock with disdain, willing the minutes to go faster. It was Incompetent Interns at Work day, the one day a week when he looked forward to leaving his job, mostly because at home no one could set fire to the potions lab, or blow up a cauldron, or flood the room. It had been just over a year since that fateful day he had received the letter from Hermione, and a good five or so months since he had last seen Harry Potter. There had been no news of him in the papers – not that Draco had been looking – and no talk of him in the Ministry – not that Draco had been listening. He had seen none of the Weasleys, and none of them had been able to contact him. He had set up a repelling ward that turned away any owls with letters from them, and had snuck in and out of his office and potions lab with such stealth that more than once he had considered going back to his old job as an Auror. Potter himself had made no move to contact him, a fact which both relieved and angered Draco to no end.

Almost six months of peace, and Draco was sitting at his desk telling himself that he wasn't at all curious about what had happened to Potter. He buried his head in his hands, resisting the urge to bang it on his desk until he lay unconscious on the floor. It was a lie, and he knew it. He heard the door open, and he waved his hand impatiently, an effect that was ruined somewhat by the fact that his arm was still underneath his forehead.

"Go away, you incompetent idiots, and be thankful that you didn't blow something up this time. Get someone else to sign your paperwork, or better yet, leave forever and find a job that you are, in fact, suited for, something that doesn't involve you having to touch anything even remotely fragile or volatile."

The door closed without a sound, and his hand drooped where it was, his elbow on the desk, his forearm still in the air.

"That's not very supportive of you." Came a wry comment, and Draco froze. He knew that voice. He didn't move, although he cast an extremely subtle look towards his door. He cursed inwardly. He couldn't see who it was. He was hoping he was hallucinating and that he was just hearing things.

He smoothed his face into a mask of indifference as best as he could and then, without looking at the person in his doorway, sat up and reached out for a piece of paperwork. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that a rogue paperclip had stuck itself to his cheek during his face time with the desk. He brushed it away casually, burning with embarrassment on the inside. Only years of Malfoy training kept his voice steady and calm.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"We need to talk." Came Potter's voice again, and Draco vehemently ignored it, mentally going through the list of spells he could competently cast and wondering if he could successfully put himself in a coma. He pretended to be absolutely fascinated with the paperwork on his desk. The words blurred into incomprehensible blather before his eyes. He registered the word 'resinous' before reading the word 'sap' three times over.

He heard the sound of someone moving closer and then he could resist the temptation no longer. He looked up and into the healthy, gorgeous face of Harry Potter, taking in the green eyes, and the glossy black hair, the slightly parted lips full of colour, and then, worst of all, the body attached to the head, which was dressed in Muggle jeans and a black shirt, and looked ridiculously fit for a body that, just months ago, had been starved by its insane owner. He fixated on the shirt, which had an X-Ray image of a dog printed on it, and then decided that was a bad idea when Potter moved and various muscles flexed.

"I wanted to thank you."

"Don't mention it. Really." Draco said, with a little difficulty because suddenly his mouth was dry.

Potter pressed on stubbornly. "I really needed the help of good friends, so I'm very grateful to you and everyone else."

"I'm not your friend, Potter." Draco said impatiently.

Potter chuckled, and something in Draco's brain twitched at the sound, hoping to hear more of it.

"You helped take care of me for seven months. I think you count as a friend now."

Draco stared at him. "I only did it because I wanted this job. I certainly don't appreciate all the effort I had to put into this." _Lies! Lies and slander!_

Potter smirked at him. "You do realise that Hermione never actually said you had to keep doing it in order to keep the job, right?" He'd moved closer to the desk now, and Draco was telling his brain to shut up, because he knew very well that Hermione would have let him keep the job if he had given up a month into it.

"If you come any closer to my person, Potter, I'll hex you so badly you'll wish you were a bloody zombie again."

"Just hear me out. I wanted to make it up to you for making you go out of your way. And I spent quite a while trying to think of how to do it, and then something you said while I was, as you said, a zombie, came back to me."

"Potter, what are you getting at?" Draco praised his upbringing for the fact he did not stammer.

Potter shrugged a little awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. "Still up for dinner?"

Draco cast his mind back to the first day of Pottersitting, and shook his head slightly. He stood, avoiding eye contact, and held the door open. "No, thank you. Now, if you please, I have quite a lot of work to do still." He looked up, prepared to tell Potter goodbye and good riddance, and found said boy right in front of him, much closer than he'd been before.

Draco glared, pushing him away slightly, ignoring the warmth of Potter beneath the shirt. _But isn't this what you wanted? __Potter __as your boyfriend? Haven't you wanted this for years? _He told his brain to shut up. Dinner was not a date, and there was no proof that Potter wasn't as straight as a metal ruler.

Potter didn't move, and Draco felt his agitation rise. "It's lovely that you're back in good health, I appreciate you coming here to thank me in person, but you don't need to take me out to dinner as some kind of reward for bullying you back into the world of the living."

"There must be some way I can, though." Potter insisted, and Draco felt his resistance wavering. This close, he could smell Potter's cologne, shampoo, and unique scent. He would have been lying if he'd said he didn't like it. His control snapped, and without thinking he leaned forward and traced the contours of Potter's neck with his nose very lightly.

Potter stopped talking, and Draco murmured against his throat, "I could forgive the inconvenience for a kiss, perhaps." He felt Potter swallow, his Adam's apple moving against Draco's lips. He nuzzled Potter's neck for a moment, feeling the rough hint of a beard. Dimly he wondered why Potter hadn't grown a crazy beard during his months of insanity and chalked it down to Hermione. She'd probably found a spell, of all things, in the midst of the chaos. He turned his attention back to the other man's neck, and he gave an experimental lick. Potter whined, then, and Draco pulled away, victorious.

"That wasn't a kiss, Draco." Potter said defiantly. Draco's breath hitched at the use of his first name.

"Very true." He agreed, nodding. "But this is."

He swooped in without any further warning and captured Potter's lips in a kiss. It was chaste, to begin with, a simple closed-mouth kiss with light pressure, but when Potter started kissing back, instead of jumping back and yelling bloody murder, Draco lost all innocence. Opening his mouth, he ran his tongue over Potter's bottom lip, nibbling on it slightly. Potter's mouth opened voluntarily, and Draco swept his tongue across Potter's teeth, over his lips, and drank in the taste and smell that was Harry Potter.

They pulled apart, breathless, and then Draco chuckled at Potter's amazed look. Part of him died a happy death when Potter did not change his mind about the kiss and start hexing Draco into oblivion. His breath caught, however, when the amazement turned into a surprisingly seductive gaze, and he felt a smirk rising to answer it.

"Just a kiss, then?" Potter said, making to leave his office. Draco grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer.

"Well, maybe the dinner as well. But it had better be at a classy restaurant."

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

I actually really was going to end it there (instead of the last chapter, ehehehe) but part of me knows you're expecting sexy Drarry times, so there's one more chapter in the making.

Reverie Wilde, chadders & DazzlexMe - I really couldn't resist, I'm sorry.

Super-Mogils - I know right. I was sorely tempted to leave it at that and then _not_ say 'Just kidding!' afterwards but I think people would have yelled at me, and I don't really like that _

Heretogetthestory & TheCynic'sDream - Dammit why was I unable to find that out? It's been too long since I read the books, I think.


End file.
